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The Underbelly of Autumn

The Underbelly of Autumn

i look skyward through
a holy dome
resplendent as any cathedral glass

as i rest on a crunching pew of brown
these dancing saints
twirl and curtsey at my unspoken prayers

some may say
that i've too much of Emily Doctrine
for my own good

but i know the sound
of a solitary leaf
alighting on a still lake

and i hear God whisper
as a soft rustling
in the underbelly of autumn

It was a perfect day for laying on a bed of dry crunchy leaves and take photos looking upward.

fire

fire thrashes
to keep afloat in
tranquil waters

***

This photo was taken at the Missouri Botanical Gardens in St. Louis. I'm just beginning to catch up on photos I took in July while at my parents' in St. Louis and in San Francisco for a few days. These posts will be random (i.e...not chronological or subject to any order whatsoever) so bear with me :-)

i'm just not laughing

this is what i read
before silencing the light
late last night:

a book that asks why
God is Laughing
and cleverly teaches us
how if we really grow to understand
God
we'll know the answer
to that question
(and laugh along)

i read some pages
from Fridah's Diary
because i recently saw for myself
her anguished heart
vividly bled onto canvas
(i needed to read the words
of someone else in pain
to mask my own fears)

my father phoned tonight
to tell me that he has cancer

Cancer - a word spoken with undeserved respect
even in regard to others;
a word i could not let escape
from my own dry lips
for fear it would give life to itself
and consequent death to my father

i'm learning to
set the pants of fear on fire
i'm not angry
i'm not bitter, i'm
just not laughing

****
The book referenced is Why Is God Laughing? - The Path to Joy ad Spiritual Optimism by Deepak Chopra. It is an interesting read and the fact that it arrived yesterday and that I had almost completed it was uncanny (or was it?).
I have closed the comments on this post for reasons that even I do not understand but thank you for somehow understanding anyway. Peace.

Write On Wednesday (on Friday)

The very talented Becca revived her writing prompt "Write On Wednesday." This week's challenge posed the question, Why in the World Do You Come to the Page? I mulled this around in my head for a while without much success in putting my thoughts actually on to the page. I realized that I am almost always writing...in my head. Sometimes I find myself actually narrating my own life, events, thoughts, and emotions as though my life were being projected on screen and my job was to narrate the silent movie.

Too often, however, my in-my-head narration seldom makes it onto an actual page - either paper or electronic document. If I am truthful about the "whys" of this condition, I would have to say [gulp...confession time] that it is mostly due to my lack of self-discipline. On the excuse side, I would say that if I am actually out there having adventures and experiences, I am lacking the time the write about them (paltry, I know).

This exercise helped me realize something else about my writing. I am much more inclined to put poetry on a page, an envelope, a journal, a receipt or a blog than I am writing that is narrative or expository. So perhaps a lack of focus has been at the center of my inability to transfer the writings I compose in my head to paper.

Yesterday morning as I sat on my back patio with my journal and pen in hand, I began to write a poem. I did not intend for the poem to fit the WOW (nice acronym, Becca!) prompt, but as it developed I realized why, in part, I do put words to paper:

Why I Come to the Page

i failed to water my garden
flowers yesterday
they look shriveled and lackluster
(or is that my own morning mirror reflection?)

some petals hang heavy from their stems
ready to plummet and join
last fall's forgotten leaves.

compost.
(when i fall
they'll put me in a concrete box and
i'll nourish
nothing)

the urgency to put feet to my words
steals the pen from hand
so i'll forego poetry now
and offer a drink to reality

why come to the page at all then?
ask The Practical

because maybe
(just maybe)
one day somebody
will read my poem and think to themselves
Oh my! I've forgotten to water

And we'll all have been nourished

winding a ball of yarn

tonight
i snuggle beneath my
red flannel sheets and
sand-colored comforter
winding a ball of yarn

outside my window
the wind rattles the red maple
and attempts to steal its way
into my cozy world

i raise the variegated brown and ecru skein
and unwind the yarn from the hank
letting it drape upon itself
and onto my lap

from the end of the bed
my disgruntled cat
sneers at the unwelcomed guest
then settles in, resigned

i form
a small misshapen wad
and begin to wind
the wool

the muddied colors overlap
reminding me
of early last spring
when i'd lounge at the lake's edge
among last winter's leaves

on the hank's ellipse
the shades of brown and beige are distinct
but as the newly formed ball grows
the colors meld into
something new

there's something mesmerizing
about such a simple task --
the methodical unwinding and re-winding,
and the feel of the spun wool between my fingers

the wool began it's journey in Chile
and i am just one step
in the process
of its becoming

bijou onions on water

bijou onions on water
bob and shimmer in the noonday sun
at peace without a path in mind

i see myself and the world at large
in their rippled reflections--
fragil yet
bold with color
--all One

bijou onions on water
sway and swoon on dog day breezes
at peace without a path in mind

These glass ornaments were floating on the reflecting pool at Shaw's Gardens where I visited last week.

Proof Bakery

Cell phone photo with PS Fresco filter

Proof Bakery

the leathery old man
with the rotten apple face
waves eagerly, cigarrette in hand,
to everyone that passes on the street

he lights another
and another

i thought that chain smokers
were a dying breed

not since my Great Aunt Myrtle
have i seen anyone
light cigarette after cigarette
like this old codger
with the diamond pinkie ring
and khaki linen slacks

Aunt Myrtle was a character as well
older than dirt it seemed

it's difficult to reckon my memory
of her --
bent and crumpled--
with the ruby ring I inherited
from her  collection of jewels
given her during the Big War
(The War to end all wars)

the ring was a payment
(of sorts)
for services rendered

times were tough then

think i'll have another latte

Ode to My Plaid Flannel Sheets

Winter arrived on my doorstep late last night

Like a brown paper lunchbag all aflame.

But it's better to let both run their courses

Than to try and stomp them out.

 

So I retreated to the assuagement of you,

My Plaid Flannel Sheets,

And tucked you around me like a

Trollop takes to Lycra.

 

Then much too soon,

Morning rudely tapped me on the head

So I burrowed into your downy comfort--

A creature cozy in its natural habitat.

 

You covered my tousled tresses

But, alas, my Tartan Sanctuary,

not even you could safeguard

This reluctant pilgrim against daylight's necessary journey.

 

Though I must temporarily abandon your warm generosity,

And your plump hospitable cousin,

I will return this afternoon with our friend,

Earl Grey, and an indelicate tale to entertain us.

 

One Deep Breath - Faces of Humanity

clarity rising
sassy certainty of brilliance--
priceless diamonds

Poetry

Poetry ~Nikki Giovanni

poetry is motion graceful
as a fawn
gentle as a teardrop
strong like the eye
finding peace in a crowded room
we poets tend to think
our words are golden
though emotion speaks too
loudly to be defined
by silence
sometimes after midnight or just before
the dawn 
we sit typewriter in hand
pulling loneliness around us
forgetting our lovers or children
who are sleeping
ignoring the weary wariness
of our own logic
to compsoe a poem
  no one understands it
it never says "love me" for poets are
beyond love
it never says "accept me" for poems seek not
acceptance but controversy
it only says "i am" and therefore
i concede that you are too

a poem is pure energy
horizontally contained
between the mind
of the poet and the ear of the reader
if it does not sing discard the ear
for poetry is song
if it does not deligh discard
the heart for poetry is joy
if it does not inform then close
off the brain for it is dead
if it cannot heed the insistent message
that life is precious

which is all we poets
wrapped in our loneliness
are trying to say